2007.05.03 Porsche Prating 3: Driving Conversation

To abuse a metaphor, every drive is a conversation with the world.

The car is the interpreter. It lets you express yourself to the road, and to the other vehicles. Simultaneously, it tells you what the road is saying back. Many things are discussed all at the same time, though there is definitely a back and forth banter underlying the conversation. The beauty of driving the Porsche is that it is profoundly eloquent, and can convey nuances in both directions that cruder translators would completely miss. Its vocabulary is vast, and its elocution is crisp and precise. And it loves to talk.

Admittedly, I probably don't have as much to say to the road as some professional racers, but I've always been more of a listener anyway. And I do love to hear the secrets of the universe whispered to me in the rumble of road noise conducted through wide tires into my seat. Which is why I enjoy driving Richthofen even in traffic. I might not be able to drive fast, but there's a lot for the Porsche to tell me. And, it gives me a means to say things if I want to.

Mr. SUV rumbles blithely in front of me, cutting me off.
Translation: I, um, think I'm, like, TOTALLY more important than everybody else.

I find a gap around Mr. SUV, and cruise past him with a startling 3.6L scream.
Translation: Allow me to reach into your heart, and pluck that dissonant string of reality which thrums with the truth of your own limitation.

But, really, the most interesting conversations are to be had when the chatter of other vehicles is at a minimum, and you can converse with that colourful sage, the open road. I especially like talking to the corners.

I spot the corner approaching, and find an appropriate line to attempt.
Translation: Hello Mr. Corner. How are you today?

The road has some slight grooves, from the weight of vehicles distorting the asphalt in a particular pattern, causing the balance of the Porsche to shift slightly and use only part of the tires.
Translation: Hello there, young man. I'm feeling weary today, and might be a tad unsteady.

I start braking early, to accommodate a larger margin of safety, and check my speed to mentally calculate what sort of deceleration I need.
Translation: Thanks for the warning, old friend. I think I'll just try on a smirk instead of a full grin.

The Porsche scrubs off speed with plenty of room to spare, and the tires feel like they're glued firmly to the road. I can see the sweep of the curve looming, and can find no obstacle to be overtly concerned about.
Translation: Well, don't lose heart on my account, fleet one. I may be old, and one day I might fail you or try to kill you, but today is not that day.

My fists gently cant the wheel to guide the Porsche through a tightening arc, and claw the tires over to graze the apex in a silken moment of navigational surgery.
Translation: Oh, my. I have tilted the world, and can see proof of my life cast into sharp relief against infinity.

The apex flashes by, and swings me into the denouement of the turn with a dismissive snap.
Translation: Bullshit. You were peeking down my cleavage.

I increase the throttle, and feel the balance of the Porsche shift rearward onto its wide haunches as it howls defiantly.
Translation: And it was glorious, you old heartbreaker.

If I weren't so selfish, and cared about other people, I might be sad to see so many others completely missing out on having meaningful conversations with the world during their drives. Their cars mumble, such that their impression of the road is akin to an adult in a Peanuts cartoon, and the only thing the people seem to want to say is weary mantra of "gotta get there - gotta get there - gotta get there".

Next week, I mean to pilot Richthofen to the wisely winding dissertations of British Columbia. We might have to break out into song.